


two different meanings of the word "house"

by strikethesun



Series: The Anne Neville Cycle [4]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Songfic, author hates men and loves folk music, diegetic music, it's like the dark implication of reincarnation AUs where they regain memories before adulthood, reference to joan baez, royal non-apologism, this is anti-yorkist AND anti-lancastrian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21578191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikethesun/pseuds/strikethesun
Summary: features too-young reincarnated neville girls, a radio, and a cover of a folk standard
Relationships: Anne Neville Queen of England & Isabel Neville, Anne Neville Queen of England/Richard III of England, Isabel Neville/George Plantagenet Duke of Clarence
Series: The Anne Neville Cycle [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750822
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	two different meanings of the word "house"

**Author's Note:**

> [the specific cover referenced](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rD80eZ6Gxz0)

_there is a house in new orleans…_

isabel didn’t know where that was, but she listened.

_they call the rising sun._

the woman’s voice was undeniably pretty, and reminded her vaguely of her music teacher. anne apparently thought so too, as she crawled over towards the radio, her hair still in the braided pigtails isabel had weaved that morning. after the first day of school, anne had excitedly told her sister that music class was her favorite, but as with most things, isabel had responded with a smile, a nod, and a burning sense in her chest that there were memories yet to be revealed to both of them. 

_and it’s been the ruin of many a poor girl,_

_and me, oh god, for one._

isabel was so enraptured by the pain in this woman’s voice that she hadn’t realized that all her muscles had tightened simultaneously. anne looked at her hesitantly.

_if i had listened to what my mother said,_

_i’d have been at home today._

it came on quickly, as it seemed prone to. a worried look in the eye of a woman who was most definitely not their mother, but _had_ to have been; a reassuring rub of the back, but with a trembling palm; an old woman sitting alone in a church, sobbing, though isabel had the distinct impression that this last image was her own nightmarish creation, emerging out of the depths of the agonized confusion of childbirth.

isabel was nine years old.

_but i was young, and foolish, oh god—_

_let a rambler lead me astray._

next, _those_ men appeared again: handsome, and then suddenly not, and then handsome again, but only through a concentrated effort to make them seem so. she was to have one and anne was to have the other, the younger, it made sense. what made less sense was how nervous the girls were, and how cold the men seemed. warm on their wedding nights, perhaps— isabel didn’t know what, exactly, the men were doing to her and her sister, but it hurt, but it was exciting, but it was scary. 

words rang in her ears: “all their illusions will fade. the money and the land and the power will mean nothing when you’re alone in a bed that dwarfs you, and the size doesn’t seem luxurious but objectifying, and you’re calling for a husband who isn’t hearing, and you’re forced to face the scariest idea of all: that your young death was planned from the time you were born.” 

but isabel didn’t recognize the voice, nor many of the words. who was saying this to her?

_go tell my baby sister…_

anne, oblivious, looked at isabel, who was starting to sob audibly. the older clutched the younger around the waist.

_“don’t do what i have done.”_

isabel turned the radio off, but it didn’t stop the images from flooding in, the feeling of not being able to feel one’s own skin again, the sensation of passing through walls, the silent screams directed at a woman who could only be _anne,_ as she watched her own sister struggle through childbirth, spend hours staring alone into mirrors to ask if the noble lady she saw was the same frightened girl who was married off to pay for crimes she hadn’t committed, and had to marry again to pay for the crime of marrying the first time, and was crushed under the weight of her own blood while she convinced herself that the man who was supposed to be her gracious benefactor was attempting to flick her out of his life like an annoying insect.

“this is what they do, anne, they don’t know how else to live, they’re cut from the same cloth as father, i don’t care if he doesn’t seem _bad,_ it’s not about _badness_ and never was, it’s about what he _is_ and what you _are_ and you will never be anything more than a strategy, a tactic, and if any emotion happens to come into it, it can be taken away by a chance at—”

anne placed a small hand over isabel’s shaking lips. neither girl understood what had just been said— who’s “father?” can’t be “dad,” right? —but the sadness cut just as deeply, and was more than enough for a young mind to try to process.


End file.
